


Sartor Resartus

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Banter, Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Fashion & Couture, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25355587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Mr Fell is the best tailor in London. After yet another partner of his proves to be too boring, he goes to his country house and meets a handsome waiter at a local restaurant. Soon the young man becomes Mr Fell's muse - and torment.Based on the movie "Phantom thread".
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing.

Mr Aziraphale Fell liked his routine and tolerated no deviations from it. His routine was perfectly tailored, just like the rest of his life. He was the most sought out tailor in London. His taste was impeccable. His house was beautiful, if somewhat cluttered. He treated his workers with utmost respect, paid generously, regularly made spectacular wedding dresses for people who couldn't afford Mr Fell's services but claimed his affection. Those people, workers and friends, they knew Aziraphale as a kind man with a beaming smile. 

His sister Michael, a stern middle-aged woman who wore her pantsuits as if they had been a part of her (and they were, in a way, after all Aziraphale loved dressing his sister), dealt with the administrative work, which allowed Aziraphale to concentrate solely on his art. She was protective of him and regularly made sure that another lover Aziraphale got tired of would be dismissed politely. Aziraphale's lovers would say they knew the man, but had they exchanged a word with Michael or Aziraphale's employees, they would have discovered they hadn't even come closer to knowing him, because Aziraphale's lovers would dazedly describe an easily bored man, meticulous, demanding and the best lover one could have wished for. They never lasted long, those men. One of them was currently sitting in the kitchen.

His name was Gabriel, he was conventionally beautiful, had a punishing health regime, tried to keep a watchful eye on the amount of desserts Aziraphale consumed, which Aziraphale found touching in the beginning and insufferable now. 

Gabriel was watching Aziraphale prepare his tea with the saddest gaze. Michael took a long drag from her cigarette, using the resulting cloud of smoke as a sufficient cover to roll her eyes. Gabriel wasn't a smart person, but he could see the subtle signs of Aziraphale's displeasure, which meant that soon Michael would have  _ a conversation  _ with him and Gabriel would find himself alone - an unbearable thought, since Aziraphale was so easy to love: his beauty was a sort of internal glow, that divine spark each person carries but few people show, and he was devastatingly handsome with his pale white curls and equally pale blue eyes that twinkled with hidden mischief when Aziraphale was happy. Gabriel, when he wooed Aziraphale and chased away his predecessor, thought he'd be the one, the last one. They said around London that Aziraphale's  _ last one  _ was an unattainable position. Some stayed longer, some left before  _ a conversation _ , some remained friends with Aziraphale, because despite every heartbreak, people couldn't stay away from Aziraphale for long. If he allowed friendship, then friendship would be accepted gladly. They called themselves his knights. Gabriel was too proud to accept such a thing, and more than that, Gabriel considered himself perfect in general and for Aziraphale in particular.

"Sunshine, you shouldn't put so much sugar into your tea," Gabriel begged when Aziraphale settled at the table.

"You shouldn't eat so much spinach, lest you turn into it. Green doesn't suit you, Gabriel," Aziraphale replied coolly. 

"I'm worried about you, sunshine, you grew soft around the middle." Gabriel tried to reach out and touch Aziraphale's tummy, but his hand was snapped away. 

"You don't touch me outside the bedroom, dear boy."

"I noticed. We haven't held hands in a while." Gabriel pleaded.

Aziraphale opened the newspaper.

"You wank too much, Gabriel, it's unsavoury." 

Michael snorted. Gabriel shot her a glare - and regretted it immediately: Michael could crash a diamond with her eyes, cold and unyielding, the same shade of blue her brother had, but without a twinkle.

"Because you don't shag me enough…"

"Enough," Aziraphale repeated. He looked at Gabriel over the newspaper. "That was enough of you, Gabriel. Now my morning is ruined."

"Go have tea in your study, brother. I'll take care of everything for you," Michael promised.

"You're a treasure, my dear." There it was, that warm twinkle in Aziraphale's eyes, a soft smile no lover of his had ever achieved.

Aziraphale left the kitchen. Michael and Gabriel looked at each other. 

"Aziraphale will take a short trip to the sea tonight. I expect him to return in a few days, and by that time you should be long gone, Gabriel."

Michael returned to her refined smoking and tea-sipping. Gabriel expected her to leave, but she didn't move a muscle. He decided to remain where he was, the stubborn thing. He'd fall to his knees, he'd beg Aziraphale for another chance, he'd prove himself, he'd…

"This is my house, Gabriel, and you're no longer welcome here. Do be a dear and fuck off." Michael opened her diary and busied herself with Aziraphale's schedule.

***

Aziraphale finished his tea in his study, just as Michael had suggested. Afterwards he walked down to the workshop proper - in his study he only experimented, and the place was considered sanctum sanctorum of his atelier. 

Once surrounded by his assistants who greeted him and were greeted in return, Aziraphale felt at home. He inquired after his chief assistant's grumpy old husband, and Tracy laughed happily before sharing a few details about  _ dear old Mr Shadwell.  _

She showed him a few designs she and her favourite pupil Ana had been working on.

"Are you sure you want to retire, my dear? Can't imagine this place without you." Aziraphale smiled sadly.

"Ana is brilliant. Golden hands. A miracle." Tracy squeezed Aziraphale's arm all the same.

"You're lonely, Aziraphale. You shouldn't be."

"I'm not lonely, Tracy, I have you and your beautiful team… you people are my family."

Everyone in the shop knew it to be true, it wasn't something even worth saying. Even those whom the perfectionistic Mr Fell turned down ended up working in other good shops with a reassuring suggestion that perhaps after a few years the person could return and try again, and Aziraphale had no doubts they would succeed. He was mostly right - those words were a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy, everyone wanted to please Mr Fell after all. In Aziraphale's opinion those working relationships were more reliable than romantic ones. It wouldn't do well to trust some pretty face with his heart, it wouldn't do well to trust some brilliant mind with his thoughts… Aziraphale hadn't yet met someone whose beauty would drive him mad enough to see no fault, hadn't yet met someone whose mind could survive a long and cultured conversation with him. 

He had to finish Spanish blackwork he could trust no one with, on the sleeves of an exquisite wedding gown Aziraphale was sewing for a favourite actor of his. The man and his fiance had received a very generous discount. Aziraphale remembered with fondness how all three of them joked about Aziraphale's passion for Shakespeare. Of course Aziraphale had been promised the best seat in every major West End production for the rest of his life. 

In the evening Aziraphale picked up the bags Michael had prepared for him and drove to his cottage in South Downs. He always liked leaving the house when  _ a conversation  _ had happened - it gave the place some time to refresh itself, and Michael, to get rid of every trace and memory of another bothersome partner.

Aziraphale lay in his soft bed that night and felt content. He was a bit ashamed of himself for being so heartless, but really, there was nothing he could do. If he had a heart, he had no idea where it was. 

He walked to the village in the morning to have breakfast at his favourite restaurant. The establishment was mostly empty, although there was a young couple fighting bitterly, but they sat far from Aziraphale's usual table by the window.

Aziraphale looked around, admiring the clean room, the crispy white tablecloths, fine silver… He heard a plate hitting the floor and the husband's curses… What a deplorable lack of manners!

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon," said a calm voice above Aziraphale. He looked up - and saw a tall skinny man with a shock of auburn hair tied into an artfully messy half bun. The man had the cheekbones to cut paper with, ridiculously long legs and sharp hips that his short apron couldn't quite smoothen. The man wore sunglasses.

"I'm… Excuse me, what?"

"I said that went down like a lead balloon. Pardon my glasses, I'm photosensitive." The man's beautiful mouth and eyebrows moved almost imperceptibly to express his feigned displeasure at his imperfection.

"It's alright, my dear." 

"Now, what can I do for you?" The man smiled, revealing sharp teeth, as if to show Aziraphale that all of him was sharp. 

Without taking his eyes off of the man, Aziraphale ordered:

"Full breakfast…"

"How should we prepare your eggs?" The man asked, smirking slightly as he scribbled the order in his block note.

"Scramble them, but keep them wet, a bit runny even."

"Wouldn't do to overcook your eggs." The man shook his head reproachfully. "And what about sausages?"

"I remember you had very good Italian ones."

"We do indeed. Perfect choice - gently pink, sweet, spicy, with just enough garlic to be worth swallowing."

Aziraphale grinned. 

"Bacon?" Crowley asked. 

"Burn it black."

"Ooh…" Crowley smacked his lips in approval. "Mushrooms and tomatoes?"

"Fry them well."

"Of course. And…" He moved to take the menu from Aziraphale but stopped just as his fingers touched Aziraphale's. "And what would you say to a woodcock?" 

Aziraphale moved his fingers a bit closer to Crowley's.

"I'd love a woodcock."

"Never doubted your taste, sir. Tea or coffee?"

"Milky oolong. I'd like some porridge as a prelude, too."

"To soften your palate, of course… Perfect. I'll be right back." Crowley nodded and gave Aziraphale a blinding grin. He walked away, swaying his hips. His gait was beautifully awkward, peculiarly graceful… 

Aziraphale smiled to himself and looked out of the window. The sun was playing on the surface of the sea, winkling sparks, ticklish shifts of light. The cool seawind entered the restaurant through the open windows, flirting with the curtains…

Crowley returned with a tray full of food and a pot of tea, all balanced precariously on Crowley's arm. The physics of it were just as impossible as the physics of Crowley's legs. He set everything in front of Aziraphale. 

"Bon appetit. Hope you enjoy." Crowley sauntered away - and as he walked he swirled the now empty tray in the air above him, his body one glorious line, long arms in the air, and the sun caught itself in the silver tray, and for a moment Crowley appeared to be playing with a disc of pure light. 

He caught the tray and disappeared into the kitchen.

Aziraphale savoured his breakfast, a tingling sensation close to his groin made the food especially delicious…  _ All  _ was delicious, the world was back to its mischievous order, to eternal spring hidden within every seed and flower and tree. Aziraphale hadn't felt that way for years. 

"How are you enjoying your meal?" Crowley inquired. Aziraphale turned to look at him.

"Will you have dinner with me tonight?" Aziraphale asked.

He expected to see a naughty grin, a lustful smile, but instead Crowley hopped, full of child-like joy, and nodded a few times.

"I'll pick you up at six," Aziraphale said.

Crowley hopped and nodded again. There was some extra swagger to his walk as he returned to the kitchen. 

When Aziraphale opened a black folder containing his bill, he saw sharp and angular writing under the final sum.

_ For the hungry angel, my name is Crowley. _


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale booked a table in another favourite place of his, a restaurant just outside the village belonging to a rather luxurious hotel - in case the night progressed so well they might be in need of a room. He had spent a few pleasant evenings in the establishment. At least when an encounter was short-lived, he didn't feel a void in his chest where his heart should have been.

He loved romance, he loved love, he loved physical expression of love, he craved love, was hungry for it, but apparently completely incapable of giving it, of finding something new in his partner every day, however all of his lovers became unbearably boring and bothersome with each hour . Aziraphale had tried - many times - to foster a deeper, truer connection, but when he dug deeper so to speak, he discovered another empty barrel of a human. 

He decided, as he was getting dressed - a perfect three-piece cream-coloured suit, a blue shirt that complimented his eyes, a tartan bow tie with blue, pink and beige stripes, light-brown shoes, - that he should stop tormenting himself, Michael and those eager young men who landed in his bed and just swear off the romance. He had come from an unhappy family; he and Michael had witnessed many rude arguments between their parents. Perhaps, that was why he didn't have it in him, to trust someone so much, to rely on someone for support, for tenderness, for affection.

He got into his car and drove over to the restaurant where he had breakfast and met his date. 

Crowley was leaning on the wall of the old building which housed the restaurant - and was crocheting. Aziraphale stared at the young man, mouth agape. In the fading evening light Aziraphale could see that Crowley was counting to himself as a complex floral pattern descended from his thin fingers. It seemed as if the man was crocheting a vine into existence… He wore tight black jeans Aziraphale had seen him wearing in the morning, a black shirt and a very well-made black double-breasted trenchcoat with heavy silvery buttons. His ridiculously long legs ended in snakeskin boots. He looked far too ravishing for a waiter, Aziraphale thought, but looking like that, Crowley definitely could have entertained many a middle-aged lover of means. 

Crowley let out a loud puff and looked at his watch, then around. Spotting Aziraphale, he grinned and carelessly pushed his crocheting, needles and work, into a pocket. 

"There you are, angel."

"I'm right on time, my dear." Aziraphale approached him and leaned forward for a peck on the cheek, but Crowley captured his mouth.

"You're 36 seconds late and I won't stand for it, angel," Crowley whispered when he apparently deemed the kiss breathtaking enough.

"Aren't you a bit too fast, my dear." Aziraphale pretended to be entirely unaffected.

"No, angel,  _ you  _ are a bit too slow. I saw how you ate. Never been so hungry  _ and  _ aroused in my life. Or hungry and aroused at the same time. You have my poor proletarian mind all confused." Crowley pushed his sunglasses down his nose and winked at Aziraphale. He had almost yellow eyes and his pupils were dilated so much, Aziraphale was ready to suspect the man was high.

"Think I'm high, don't you? It's Holmes-Adie's syndrome. Want me to blow into a tube or is there something else I should blow tonight?" Crowley chuckled.

"You're shameless, my dear."

"I am, I'm afraid. Where are we going?"

"Eden." Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's elbow and steered him towards the car.

"Oh, they have a remarkable shepherd's pie. Lovely choice." Crowley hummed in agreement. When Aziraphale pulled him closer, he felt Crowley's needle poking into his side. 

"Your crocheting is beautiful, my dear, by the way." Aziraphale remarked, but Crowley wasn't ready to listen. He was staring at Aziraphale's car in horror.

"Angel… First, for someone so pretty, you have an abominably ugly car. Ford was an anti-Semite, you know? And not a very good employer. Second, seeing as I don't even know your name and you're about to shove me into this abomination, I need to send a picture of it to a mate in case I don't show up for work tomorrow." Crowley stepped back and snapped a picture of the car. 

"It's a perfectly normal automobile!" Aziraphale was scandalised.

"But you're not normal, angel." Crowley finally got into the car. "You're not ordinary. You're not boring. Why would you drive  _ that _ ?"

"Well, it does look better with you in it." Aziraphale took his place next to Crowley and started the car. It suddenly appeared very ugly indeed.

The short drive was spent in silence. Crowley even pulled his crocheting out. He seemed to be quite at peace with himself. 

When they arrived Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale's knee stopping him from getting out. "Wait a minute." He took something out of his pocket and handed it to Aziraphale. 

It was too dark to say exactly what it was, but Crowley reached up and turned the light on. Aziraphale gasped - on his hand sat an incredible red rose, but it didn't feel like a flower, no coolness to its petals, no silky texture… It was a crocheted flower which no one would ever recognise as such.

"I… I wouldn't have been able to make such a thing." Aziraphale admitted, looking up at Crowley.

"You crochet?"

"I'm Aziraphale Fell."

"And?"

"I make dresses."

"Oh, the Aziraphale Fell." Crowley shrugged, unimpressed. "Still, do you crochet?"

"I thought so… Thank you, my dear."

"No problem," Crowley slid out of the car and before Aziraphale could take another breath, Crowley was opening his door for him.

They walked into the restaurant. A few waiters greeted Crowley, to Aziraphale's displeasure and… he couldn't have a heartbreak over a boy, he didn't have a heart and barely knew the boy.

"I used to work here, but I do love an ocean view, so I left. They are still bitter about it. Hope they won't poison me." 

Crowley sat in front of Aziraphale - if it could be called sitting. The man sprawled over a chair as if he had been liquid.

"I didn't ask. I doubt I'm the first patron to ask you out."

"As a matter of fact you are. I'm… an acquired taste, you see. Too gangly." Crowley blushed slightly. Aziraphale didn't believe a word he said.

"I find you very alluring, dear boy." Aziraphale busied himself with the menu.

"I do hope so, because I find you very alluring too… Tell me about the dresses."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Really? Then tell me why don't you make suits?"

"I make suits for my sister," Aziraphale snapped back.

"Not for men, though."

Aziraphale shrugged. Crowley dropped the topic, noticing Aziraphale's discomfort.

"I like flowers, you know? But the damned buggers wilt and are never quite what I want. I mostly grow them for oils. Once I save enough, I want to become a perfumer. In the meantime I discovered I could make the flowers just the way I need them to be - and they never wilt."

Aziraphale made a non-committal sound.

"What do you want to talk about, angel?"

"I didn't plan to do much talking."

"Oh… did you? I don't like angry lovers, angel. If you planned for something else, you need to be a bit more… interesting."

Aziraphale ordered the food for them both, but Crowley stopped the waiter.

"Nothing for me, Hastur, I'm leaving." He stood up, grabbed his coat and sauntered away.

Aziraphale followed him with his eyes. The food lost its appeal, he was humiliated, he was stood up by a mischievous young man who wasn't impressed with Aziraphale's status, but found him  _ alluring _ and called him  _ angel _ ; who refused to be honoured by Aziraphale's company… He paid the bill and rushed outside. Crowley of course was nowhere to be seen, but Aziraphale caught up with him on the road. The young man was carelessly sauntering forward.

"I'm sorry, Crowley, that was… mean of me," Aziraphale said, rolling his window down.

Crowley hummed and continued walking, forcing Aziraphale to drive uncomfortably slowly.

"Please… we could have a good time."

"Really?" Crowley stopped abruptly. "I don't think so, angel. I think you need a very good spanking from the nanny. I think you don't understand that people might like you and take interest in you regardless of how posh your arse is. It's a very good arse, mind you, but I'm not in the mood for insecure older men who think I'm an easy fuck."

"I'm… I'm sorry. Crowley, I haven't apologised in years! Please… get in the car, we'll go anywhere you want."

"Go anywhere you want, angel," Crowley shrugged again. He looked vulnerable and hurt. 

"I want to go anywhere  _ you  _ want. You… you do deserve better."

Crowley sighed and walked to the passenger seat. "I tell you where to go, and you drive where I'm telling you to. Alright?"

Aziraphale just nodded.

"Alright?" Crowley demanded.

"Yes. Yes, my dear."

Crowley took them to his tiny flat. It was meticulously organised, had plants everywhere and smelled of lavender, eucalyptus, roses, sandalwood - oh, it was intoxicating.

"Sit!" Crowley pointed to a chair. "I will make us dinner. Tell me about the suits, if you want, or you can ask me questions, but I won't stand for silence, do you understand?"

"You make me afraid they won't find me tomorrow, dear boy."

"They will." 

Crowley started cooking. It was something quick and easy, but it smelled… it smelled divine, and divinity, as Aziraphale was discovering, smelled of thyme and garlic, of rosemary and oregano, of butter, of boiling olive oil. 

Half an hour later Crowley put a bowl of soup in front of Aziraphale and handed him a slice of warm bread with butter spreaded over it generously.

"It's thyme and garlic soup. You eat it, while I make the risotto. You still haven't said a word." 

The soup was delicious. It was comforting, warming, with a sharp, strong taste. 

"I… this soup is scrumptious, my dear. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Speak."

"I… I don't know what to talk about, to be honest."

"Alright." Crowley sat across from Aziraphale with a bowl of soup of his own. "You work in fashion, you're surrounded by beautiful people who must be begging for your attention. Why aren't you married?"

"I think you explained it perfectly yourself. Besides… I don't think I have a heart. I mean, I do have it, physically, but… no matter how much I want love, I never… never seem to find it in me to love someone. I don't think anyone would ever love me."

"That's a sad thought," Crowley said. He took Aziraphale's hand. "I think… I think you do have a heart, and whoever gets it, will be in trouble. You will burn them - and not everyone is willing to burn. I'll bring the risotto."

"And… are you willing to burn?"

"Oh, angel, I'm a salamander of old - I'm fire-proof." Crowley winked. 

They finished their dinner with a bottle of cheap but decent wine. Crowley shared his cigarette with Aziraphale.

"Thingsssss that don't have heartsssss don't sssssmell," Crowley hissed into Aziraphale's ear, suddenly impossibly close. "Heartlesssssss people ssssssmell evil. You don't. There'sssss a glow to you, something sweet… Vanilla…" He licked Aziraphale's neck, and Aziraphale whimpered. "Something bitter…" He nipped at Aziraphale's ear. "Can't quite place it… Something naughtily sour… Lime… Late apples. Sssscratch the vanilla. It's lime and apples. Mint. Lemongrass. Something fresh, something… beautiful." Crowley kissed Aziraphale's lips. 

"Maybe… you're my heart." Aziraphale rasped when the kiss was over.

"Only one way to find out." Crowley took Aziraphale's hand and placed it on his chest. "Isssss the rhythm… agreeable?"

"Too… too fast."

"Oh, then you must be excited… Or I was right… You are burningly hot." Crowley kissed him again, but stopped Aziraphale's hand when it slid down Crowley's torso to grab at his crotch. "No. Not now, not like this. I'll get you a cab." Crowley stood up, arranging his clothes. "If you want to see me, you know where to find me."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a rollercoaster

Aziraphale drove back to London in a daze. Crowley had the cabbie tow Aziraphale's car back to the cottage, so in the morning Aziraphale could just hop into the car and be on his way, which was precisely what he did. 

Michael couldn't quite understand what had happened, but she had never seen her brother like that - restless, distracted, lost. Tracy mentioned to her that Aziraphale had made enough Bruges lace for several royal weddings. 

"Brother, what the fuck is going on?" Michael stormed into her brother's study. He was sketching, frowning, much more like himself, to Michael's joy, but then he raised his head and she saw his face glowing, yet worried. 

"Oh… Aziraphale…" She walked over to him. "What's going on?"

"I need all this as soon as possible," Aziraphale handed her a list. She looked through it, then at Aziraphale's sketch. 

"You… want to make a men's suit? I bet there's no one in the world who's so skinny."

"Turns out there is." Aziraphale remarked, lowering his eyes to gaze at his pale imitation of Crowley. 

"And how come he's not here begging you to take him on this minute?" Michael smiled, although she wasn't feeling so sure. 

"Because he doesn't want it… Not like that. Not like Gabriel and the rest." Aziraphale spoke too calmly for Michael to remain calm. 

"Then he's not worthy of you! Some pretentious provincial shit! You're Aziraphale fucking Fell, and everyone should be on their knees worshipping you." She swallowed a lump in her throat. "Our parents fucked us up, but I'll be damned if you're not loved the way you deserve!"

"Have I ever been loved, though? Apart from you and Tracy, who has ever loved me? Whom have I ever loved, apart from you two? God knows I wanted to…"

"Aziraphale, do you want me to drag him here and explain…"

"No. I'm going to him in the morning."

"Back to South Downs? You've just been there!"

"No. It's been six days. I can't get him out of my head. I didn't even ask for his phone number. He didn't ask for mine… He made me soup, you know."

Michael bit her lip. "He… made you soup?"

"Yes. And ran away when I was rude to him."

"I need to meet this… shit."

"Don't call him that. His name is… Crowley," Aziraphale pronounced it with such pure happiness, Michael wanted to hunt Crowley down and command him to make her brother happy forever.

***

Aziraphale carefully walked into the restaurant, his eyes searching for Crowley. He was at a loss about what he was supposed to do, but he had to find Crowley. He sat by the window and waited, pointedly looking at the sea, grey, frowning, disapproving.

"Good morning," Crowley said above him. "Glad to see you back so soon. Sir." He smirked, the handsome devil.

Aziraphale didn't know what to say, he wasn't even hungry. 

Crowley nodded. 

"Here." He put a key in front of Aziraphale. "It's from my place. You can wait for me there, if you like. There's food in the fridge. I've been cooking like crazy every day, hoping you'd come back. I'll be done at four."

And Crowley walked away.

Aziraphale drove to Crowley's flat, surprised that he could remember the way. Once inside he breathed in the heavy smell. Lemongrass, lemongrass, lemongrass, and mint. There was just one pot with lemongrass and just one pot with mint, but the place was drowning in it. Aziraphale walked around and found a tiny terrace where Crowley clearly was making his perfumes… 

And still, the only smells that Aziraphale could sense were those of lemongrass and mint… It settled around Aziraphale - and turned into a suffocatingly tender scent of late apples. 

There were books too - chemistry mostly, and botanics, and gardening, and history of Persia. "No Shakespeare," Aziraphale whispered, having checked the place twice. "My darling boy, how come you don't have Shakespeare?"

He picked a book about Persia and walked to Crowley's bedroom where an enormous bed was covered with a heavy crocheted blanket, midnight black, luscious foliage for a pattern. 

Aziraphale lay down with the book and began waiting. 

Meanwhile in London Michael told everything to Tracy. She shook her head fondly. 

"If you think about it… Love is a lot like soup - take everything you have, put it into a pot, simmer it for a while… and it sustains you forever. Until it goes bad, that is. But it doesn't have to… I need to tell all this to my dear Shadwell."

Michael rolled her eyes and returned to her office, where it turned out Gabriel had been waiting for her.

"Listen, you and I both know that I was perfect for him, we just…" Gabriel began, with his usual air of insufferable righteousness. 

Michael burst out laughing. "You fucking… shame!" She stopped laughing as suddenly as she started. "He found someone who makes him soup." 

"What? What the… Soup? Every cook can make soup!"

"Gabriel, I wish I could say I want you to meet someone who'd make soup for you… but you don't deserve it, so fuck off before I call security."

***

At quarter past four Aziraphale heard the door open. He rushed out of the bedroom to greet Crowley. 

"My dear…" 

"Hey, angel. Hope you made yourself at home," Crowley smiled. He looked tired and sad. Neither made sense to Aziraphale: he wanted Crowley well rested and joyous.

"I… I did. I missed you."

Crowley toed off his boots and stood there, barely a metre from Aziraphale, hands stuck in his pockets. 

"I missed you too, angel," he admitted finally.

"So… so kiss me, my boy, before…"

Crowley's lips were on Aziraphale's immediately. He fumbled with his clothes, trying to be simultaneously quick and careful. Aziraphale held Crowley's head with desperation, clinging to his hair, caressing those sharp cheekbones. Crowley managed to dance Aziraphale into the bedroom, breaking the kiss to be done with Aziraphale's clothes immediately. "Oh… look at you… so soft and pale… Angel." Crowley held Aziraphale and moved him gently towards the bed to push him onto the black blanket. He practically tore at his clothes to get rid of them, then his mouth was on Aziraphale's neck, his tongue traced the line from the crook of Aziraphale's neck to the crease between an arm and the torso. 

"When you're going… when you're leaving, take the blanket with you. You look so beautiful on it."

Aziraphale grabbed at Crowley's hips, trying to get some friction. "Darling… Touch me, please touch me."

"Anything you want," Crowley rasped, and his breath teased Aziraphale's nipple before Crowley's lips closed around the bud and sucked softly. His hand closed around Aziraphale's erection and tugged just so. 

"Crowley! Crowley…"

Crowley shifted his attention to the second nipple, rubbing his tongue against the pale hair on Aziraphale's chest. Aziraphale raked his fingers through Crowley's hair, careful and tender, playful even. When was the last time he had been playful in bed? 

Crowley returned to Aziraphale's neck, but his hand kept tugging and stroking Aziraphale's cock, not enough to let Aziraphale come, not enough to drive him completely mad, but just enough to show he cared. "Scoot up, angel. What do you want?" Crowley touched Aziraphale's chin, caressed up his face to reverently touch his hair.

Aziraphale scooted up, finding the spot he had occupied earlier, waiting for Crowley. 

"What do you want, angel?" Crowley repeated, crawling over Aziraphale. 

"I want you. Please, any way you can or want to give yourself to me. I want you."

"Then I want you to fuck me, angel." Crowley pecked Aziraphale's lips. 

"Yes… oh good lord, yes!"

Crowley reached for his nightstand to procure lube and condoms. He straddled Aziraphale and looked at him questioningly.

"How… can I… could you move closer a bit, dear boy?" 

Crowley nodded. He shifted a bit, so that he was hovering over Aziraphale's chest, caressing his face while Aziraphale opened him carefully.

"You're so beautiful, dearest." Aziraphale placed his free hand on Crowley's cheek. "I missed you terribly. I couldn't think of anything else but you. I feel I have been looking for you my whole life."

"You found me, angel." Crowley braced himself against the headboard. "Don't you fucking dare lose me again. Fuck!" Crowley straightened up, pushing himself down on Aziraphale's fingers.

"There, my darling… come to me, ride me…" Aziraphale pulled his fingers out, hushing Crowley's whines with gentle pecks on his chest and shoulders. Crowley lowered himself on Aziraphale's cock and froze for a moment. 

"I think you're right, angel. I think I am your heart. Break me - and you'll die."

"Never! Darling, never!" Aziraphale pushed up, arching his back. Crowley dropped his head, put his hands on Aziraphale's chest, steadying himself - and moved. He moved like liquid too, slow and smooth, easy flow of his momentum, of every line in his body.

Aziraphale sat up to hold his lover closer, to touch him everywhere and with everything.

"I'm sorry, angel, I won't last." Crowley smiled dizzily.

"Neither will I, my heart. Neither will I. Come with me, sweetheart, come with me."

Crowley cleaned them both afterwards with a wet flannel. "You'll sleep with me tonight?" He asked. 

"Of course, darling. Of course…" Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley's shoulder. "Will you come to live with me in London?" 

"As what, angel?"

"As my… As Crowley. Would you like to work in my atelier? Would you like to spend your days making perfumes? What do you want?"

"Nothing that might make you think I'm using you."

Aziraphale suddenly sobbed. 

"Angel, what's wrong? Angel?"

And he poured his soul out, told him of all the Oscars and Henrys and Williams and Gabriels and how he had never thought of it like that, how he thought that he was using them, but in the end… in the end they were using him.

"Shh, angel. Look, I haven't met any of those guys, and honestly, you've been terrible to them, but I think… I think those of them who are still your friends, they… they are drawn to you, just like I am. They want to bask in your light, in your warmth, your talent, your reputation, your fame. They want a little chunk of your soul to carry with them."

"And you, my dear?"

"And I am your heart, angel."

It took another month or so for Crowley to move to London. Michael welcomed him like a minor deity, but she quickly realised that Crowley didn't want to be worshipped or cherished or showered in gifts. He wanted to make Aziraphale soup, and it was due to that blasted soup that Aziraphale's happiness cracked for the first time. 

He was sitting in his study, working on a particularly intricate veil, when Crowley brought him soup. "Hey, angel. You've hardly been out, I brought you…"

"Don't you ever enter my study like that, Crowley. This is my sanctuary…"

"Fuck you and your sanctuary," Crowley pointedly let go of the bowl. 

"Clean it!" Aziraphale demanded, standing up slowly. 

"Clean it yourself. With your tongue, if you want. I'm not your whore, angel."

"Then what are you? You live in my house, you eat my food, you sleep in my bed, and I fuck you."

Crowley strode across the room and leaned on Aziraphale's table. 

"No, angel, fuck  _ you. _ " He spat on Aziraphale's work and sauntered away. 

***

"You did what?" Michael tried to find it in her to be furious, but it was just too funny.

"Spat on his fucking veil," Crowley repeated slowly. They were snuggling in Michael's bed sharing a bottle of beer. 

"You're a menace."

"How so? How many times have you been called a whore, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Well… they never lived long enough after that, so it's difficult to keep count." Michael giggled. 

"I told him… I told him I won't be a toy, a trophy to parade about. I won't model for him. If he wants to sew me a suit, well, he'll need to memorise me."

"That's a good one," Michael agreed, passing him the bottle. "You know… he… he seemed happy with you. Do you think you can't forgive him?"

"Well, if he asks nicely."

"Shush!.. it's him! Let's see how it goes!" 

Crowley and Michael turned their heads. Aziraphale knocked on the door. "Michael, you're asleep, my dear?"

"No, your whore doesn't let me," Michael replied. Crowley elbowed her. 

Aziraphale threw the door open.

"What are you doing here? And in my sister's bed?"

"Beer?" Crowley raised the bottle and handed it over to Michael. 

"And a very good one. I'm afraid, brother, I'm with Crowley on this one. You've been an arse." Michael snuggled cozier against Crowley. 

"This is a nightmare! It can't be happening! And you ruined my veil!" He pointed at Crowley. 

"Well, wipe your arse with it, angel."

Michael giggled again. Aziraphale stormed out. He couldn't believe his eyes and ears. Michael, his faithful, loyal Michael took Crowley's side! 

He reached his bedroom and suddenly stopped. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move… It wasn't his bedroom. It had been before Crowley, when no one shared it with him, but Crowley… 

He heard quiet steps behind him.

"I'll fix the veil. It was Bruges lace, right?"

Aziraphale nodded without turning back. "Good thing I have a day off tomorrow, angel. Otherwise…" 

Crowley was gone. Aziraphale rocked on his feet, still unable to open the bedroom door, then… then he slowly walked to his study. 

"How… how come you know types of lace?" He asked. Crowley wasn't exactly masterful, by Aziraphale's standards, but he seemed to be doing well enough. Only Tracy would be able to tell the difference. 

"I've been living with you for six months, you silly bugger. I pay attention, I talk to people, and sometimes I need something to fidget with. Crocheting doesn't do it for me anymore, which you would have noticed, had you been paying me any attention."

The bobbins knocked against each other, Crowley nodded to himself every now and then, counting.

"I'm sorry. If you want, I'll clean the soup with my tongue."

"I cleaned it already, don't worry. Did it with the veil… Kidding. Used my own shirt. You should have seen me crawling here half-naked."

Aziraphale couldn't suppress a laugh. 

"You do it again, I'll use you as a pillow."

"I'm not exactly perfect for weaving lace on me."

"You'd be surprised. Go to bed, angel."


	4. Chapter 4

The house smelled of apples and cinnamon, but in their bedroom it was always a cool and refreshing scent of lemongrass and spearmint. Mixed with the scents of Aziraphale and Crowley, it turned into something maddening, something that made Aziraphale happy to be breathing, to have lungs. Sometimes it grew heavy and sensual, sometimes it was barely there and calm. 

Aziraphale was lying on their bed wrapped into Crowley's black blanket. He was watching Crowley, still naked and sweaty, pouring them wine.

"I can feel you staring at my arse, angel, and it's been through a lot recently."

Aziraphale giggled. "Come here, then, I'll take care of it."

Crowley sauntered over to Aziraphale and gave him his glass. He sat down, winced and lay back and sideways, putting his head on Aziraphale's hip.

There had been no spitting on lace and no calling each other names. It had been mostly peaceful. 

"I want to make you a suit, darling." Aziraphale reached down to play with Crowley's hair. It had grown past his shoulders, Michael rather enjoyed braiding it.

"Why?"

"Because you're perfect and I want to make you a perfect suit."

"I'm wearing a perfect suit right now." Crowley gestured at himself, long, lithe, his skin glistening with sweat in the dim light. 

"But I didn't make it…" Aziraphale pushed his thumb into Crowley's mouth - and was bitten. "Ouch! What was that for?"

"I think I didn't have enough," Crowley replied. He put his glass on the nightstand and pushed Aziraphale on his back. "Did you have enough?"

"Oh, dear me, I'm afraid I didn't have enough either. What a shame, darling!"

Crowley grinned, then he was kissing the breath away from Aziraphale. 

"Would you eat me, angel?"

"What? No! How dare you!" 

Crowley sat up. "I would eat you. What's wrong, angel?"

"You're… you're pushing me to eat your arse!"

"Pushing you!? Pushing you? If I sat on your face, angel, that would have been pushing. If I followed you around begging you to eat my arse, that would have been pushing. Reminds you of anyone?"

"Making you a suit and eating your arse are two very different things!"

"Oh really? How many times have I told you that I won't use you, won't take a thing from you that you might be inclined to demand back? And you still think… Why didn't you make any suits for your boy toys?"

"They weren't like you! They weren't perfect - and they didn't drive me up the wall with their demands, they appreciated what I could have given them! You are an ungrateful brat!"

Crowley scooted away from the bed. Aziraphale had to give him that, he _was_ wearing a perfect suit. 

"And what did they give you? The only thing they seemed to have done was licking your arse, but metaphorically, making it truly disgusting. You are disgusting."

"Then fuck off, you arrogant bitch!"

Both men were breathing heavily. Crowley looked down. "We can't keep doing this, angel." He covered his face. "I can't keep doing this."

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry…" 

"No. You're not. You… you do think all those things about me. I don't deserve it. I think we should… spend some time apart." Crowley gathered his clothes around the room.

"I'll sleep at Michael's," Crowley said over his shoulder. 

"Don't… don't leave me."

"I'm not leaving you, but we can't… I can't go on like this. I love you so much I can't… I love you, and if this is how we will always be, then I need some time to figure things out. I know you're worth it, angel, but I might not survive it." He closed the door behind himself gently. The bedroom suddenly smelled of bitter cherries. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, pushing the heels of his hands painfully against his eyelids. 

Before Crowley he slept alone. Before Crowley he was always asked what he wanted and never answered the question because, as it turned out, he wanted Crowley and couldn't very well put it into words before meeting him. Before Crowley he would ask his lovers what they wanted and they asked for all the usual things… They always wanted his hands, his clever hands of a tailor. Aziraphale enjoyed watching them chase each other away and fight for him, for the prestige of being his lover. They would love to be his models, but Aziraphale cared for his models, sheltered and protected them, if they needed it. His very first model was a trans woman he had met at the university, and Aziraphale stood by her every step of the way. She brought in a few more models, also trans women who wanted to feel beautiful and femenine. Before long Tracy's entire support group was working with him. They brought their friends and sisters in, some of them stayed at Aziraphale's once tiny flat above an equally tiny atelier for months. Aziraphale made sure they were paid well, while Michael provided them with emotional support. Drag queens adored Aziraphale with fervor and were ready to model for free just to get a chance to wear one of Aziraphale's designs. Aziraphale paid them in a bastardly manner - he sewed their paychecks into their dresses, and once the irritation was unbearable and they had to check what the thing scratching at their skin through the delicate fabric was, they came to Aziraphale to curse and bless him. Femmes were brought in by their partners. Aziraphale's atelier had always been based in Soho, he didn't want any other clients or models or employees. They seemed to understand him perfectly. 

His first lovers were shy and undemanding. Aziraphale did his best to love them, but he couldn't. They wanted him for his talent and growing reputation. They never called him beautiful, because he wasn't, in everyone's opinion, but they were drawn to him, they wanted his kindness and generosity to turn into love… Aziraphale was very careful to never call them his loves. He didn't love. He didn't have a heart - and now his heart asked for some space, for some distance.

The posh and arrogant men of his later years wanted his status. They didn't care about another trans woman thrown out by her family. They didn't care about another trans woman who wanted a career in fashion and came to Aziraphale because he would do his best to help her. He blessed them when they left them for bigger fashion houses, and they would always speak of him as of their family.

Then he'd step into the bedroom and have sex with someone who wanted to be loved and appreciated and saw Aziraphale as the only person capable of giving them that, but how many of them closed their eyes during sex, because they didn't like him? How many of them tried to twist Aziraphale into something he wasn't? How many of them realised they loved Aziraphale only to be given _a conversation_?

And Crowley just said he loved him. He never insisted Aziraphale wore one of his perfumes. He wanted to be loved for who he was, just like Aziraphale, and Aziraphale did love him, but between meeting him and insulting him, he quite forgot to mention it. 

***

Every April Aziraphale hosted a party for all the people who had ever worked with him. They celebrated the day Aziraphale had opened his first atelier and the day he could afford a big old building. Aziraphale's _knights_ usually attended those parties religiously. 

Crowley left Aziraphale in March… No, Crowley didn't leave him. He just moved to another room, because Michael had an entirely different _conversation_ with both her brother and de facto brother-in-law. The former had to stop being a bastard and the latter was a sweet darling with a tender heart. 

Michael giggled when both Aziraphale and Crowley rejected her arguments - the former said he wasn't a bastard and the latter said he wasn't sweet, or darling, or whatever. 

Two days before the party Aziraphale knocked on Crowley's door. 

"Come in… Oh… I thought it was Michael." Crowley stood up from his desk where he was mixing something like the handsomest alchemist he was. 

"Sorry to disappoint you, my dear. Am I still welcome?"

"Very much so!" Crowley waved - and dropped his hand. The only other sitting accommodation was Crowley's bed. The room smelled of pines and clean linen, of ember, of daffodils. It smelled yellow and white. Just a hint of silver and sulphur, just a touch of golden blicks of the sun. 

"I just can't wax poetic about you to you." Crowley smiled bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You… you decided to leave me, darling."

"I didn't leave you. Turned out I couldn't. Who do you think makes all that lace _you_ wax poetic about?" Crowley smirked. 

Aziraphale snapped his head up to look at Crowley. "You… it was you. I knew it! I knew it! Ana could never make such lace! You… you… you fiend!"

"Guilty as charged, angel. How have you…" Aziraphale was kissing him, all yearning and submission instead of all-consuming hunger.

"Been," Crowley finished, once Aziraphale's lips moved to his neck. "Angel… angel, stop. Please!"

Aziraphale took a step back and sat on the bed. "I'm sorry, my dear boy… oh, my dear, sweet boy! How dare you ask… I was… I was mad!"

"Why did you come, angel?" Crowley knelt down between Aziraphale's legs. 

"There's… there's this party… and… and I want you to attend it… with me. As my partner."

"Oh, angel, but will you wear my perfume?"

"Crowley, no! How… No… I need to try it. I will try it and then…"

"No, angel, you don't need to try anything. I'm hardly Dior. Forget about it. Anything you want." Crowley touched Aziraphale's cheek. "I missed you. I missed you so fucking much."

"You go too fast for me, my heart."

"It still means you're too excited. What… what do you want me to wear?" Crowley brought his lips to Aziraphale's ear. 

"I… that's what I made for you." Aziraphale pushed a parcel into Crowley's hands.

Crowley sat back on his heels and opened it. Inside there was a burgundy jumper with laced cuffs and collar and wide leg trousers, light grey with thin white stripes. 

"Angel… oh, angel, this is perfect. I don't want to wear anything else…"

"It's… it's very unisex, I think, but I couldn't stop picturing you wearing this, so… so I made it."

"This is… angel… fuck. I love you. I love you so much."

"I love you too, my heart. I love you like my own flesh, because that's what you are. Please, sleep with me tonight."

"No, angel. You will sleep with me tonight."

"Anything, darling. Anything, just to be close to you… I'll eat your arse, if you want."

"No, angel. You'll eat my arse only if you want it. You don't. It's more than alright."

***

Aziraphale stood next to Crowley, and Crowley was wearing the burgundy jumper with lace and wide leg trousers and 3-eye Dr Martens shoes in Aziraphale's signature beige. Lost in Crowley's auburn hair were three braids Michael had made _for good luck_. Crowley kept playing with them.

Aziraphale's knights kept approaching to pay their respects and to gaze longingly at Aziraphale, who had his hand around Crowley's waist, while Crowley's long arm rested on Aziraphale's shoulder - and Aziraphale wasn't frowning, and Crowley wasn't pretending to enjoy the party, no, he wore his expression of polite boredom as a crown, and he was devilishly beautiful. Aziraphale's knights came from rich liberal families, so they didn't like _mingling_ with the people Aziraphale considered most important - and Crowley basked in their appreciation.

The drinks were served and anecdotes were exchanged. 

Then Tracy looked at _dear Mr Shadwell_ adoringly. 

"You know, no story of yours compares to mine."

Shadwell snogged his Tracy with so much affection, both Crowley and Aziraphale blushed. "Do tell them, lassie. It's been years!" 

"So, Aziraphale got his first _big_ commission - a wedding dress for some princess."

"No, Tracy, please…" Aziraphale begged.

Crowley rubbed Aziraphale's shoulder reassuringly. "Shut it, angel, I want to know!"

Aziraphale's knights gasped, but Aziraphale himself nuzzled Crowley's shoulder and looked up at his lover. 

"I do want to know, angel. May I?" Crowley asked gently.

"Oh, whatever you want, love, my dearest heart." Aziraphale pecked Crowley's lips. 

A few whispers ran among the knights - how they could all make soup, how they never embarrassed Aziraphale like that, but… but Crowley held Aziraphale closer, fierce and protective. He glared at the knights from behind his sunglasses, and really, what could they say?

"So, he made that perfect wedding dress for some princess… And my dear Shadwell here, he was…" Tracy paused.

"I was a right arse, lassie. Not proud of it." Shadwell kissed Tracy's cheek.

"That you were, Mr Shadwell… But anyway, he came around and he…"

"I was smitten and I proposed. Fuck them all filthy biggots, my Tracy is the prettiest woman on Earth!" Mr Shadwell eyed the room menacingly. 

"Oh, Mr Shadwell!" Tracy blushed. "Anyway, I was young and my hair was almost as lovely as our Crowley's." She winked at Crowley, he raised his glass, cheering her. Aziraphale kissed his temple and looked up at him. 

"That's humiliating!" Gabriel hissed to one of Oscars, Henrys and Williams. 

"Oh, but look at him… he's happy!"

"So here comes our darling Aziraphale and does what? Gives me that dress! He spent the following week remaking the dress, all on his own, to keep it a secret, and…" Tracy stopped, because Crowley dipped Aziraphale and kissed him soundly on the lips. "You, my beautiful angel, are… oh fuck, I love you!" Crowley kissed Aziraphale again, this time without any dipping, but still shameless, unashamed, in love, smiling like a loon.

"Oh, darling…" Aziraphale only had eyes for Crowley and he traced Crowley's cheekbones with his fingers and kissed him gently, and, unable to withstand so much staring, hid his face on Crowley's chest.

"Oh, angel, didn't mean to embarrass you." He leaned closer to whisper into Aziraphale's ear: "You're wearing my perfume, you're wearing me. Yes, angel, yes. I'm so riding you afterwards. Or perhaps tomorrow."

Aziraphale raised his head to pout at Crowley. 

Crowley laughed and kissed his angel again. 


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley proved to be a disastrous model, when he agreed to let Aziraphale make a suit for him. He could hardly stand still for longer than a second, he tried to kiss Aziraphale all the time - and tried even harder seeing Aziraphale's anger.

"Crowley, you're not letting me work properly!"

"But I want my angel to kiss me!"

"This is serious!"

"Is it? Just a suit!"

"How dare you!.. Fuck!" Aziraphale took a step back, and Crowley stepped down from the podium. 

"This is better." Crowley touched Aziraphale's chin tilting his head up to kiss him softly. "This is better still." He kissed him again, open-mouthed this time. "This is the best." He held Aziraphale tight and kissed him with passion.

"I want to make a suit for you, darling!"

"You still haven't answered why it's so important, angel."

"You're beautiful…"

"And that's what I am? Is that all that I am? You want to dress me up?"

"I want to make you even more beautiful. I want to… to partake in your creation, so to speak." Aziraphale blushed and looked away.

"When you cover me in kisses, then you create me, light me up…" Crowley tried to kiss Aziraphale again, but he pushed him away. 

"Crowley, why do you want me to wear your perfume?"

"It enhances your own smell and so it's easier for me to smell you." Crowley nuzzled Aziraphale's neck. Aziraphale giggled. "And I physically can't stand still when you're around. I want you all the time…" 

"Darling! This is ridiculous… Oh, darling…" Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's shoulders to remain standing, as Crowley moved to kiss Aziraphale's neck and jaw. "You… I can't get anything done like that… Yes… keep going…" 

Crowley dropped to his knees and made a quick work of Aziraphale's trousers and pants. "I love you, angel. I'll behave, I swear… Afterwards." He took Aziraphale's cock into his mouth. 

Half an hour later, both disheveled and dazed, they returned to work. Crowley still couldn't stay still, but somehow Aziraphale wasn't getting mad about it. If anything, he was more focused and resolute. 

"I'm sorry, angel…"

"It's alright, my heart, you can't help it."

"No, I mean, about teasing you and… Was forgetting myself."

"Love," Aziraphale looked up at Crowley and put a hand on his cheek. "My love…"

"Yes, angel?" Crowley smiled.

"We haven't fought in two weeks. Deserves a celebration, doesn't it?"

They went out with Michael to a place both Michael and Aziraphale had been frequenting for years, and Crowley loved the relaxed looks on their faces and laughed with them. 

Michael remembered that an old acquaintance of theirs was throwing a party which the Fells had been invited to but had declined to attend. Giggling and mischievous, the trio decided to gatecrash the party - and were welcomed with loud cheers. 

Crowley couldn't take his eyes off of the siblings. Michael was having fun, and Crowley knew she hadn't had much of that. The evening was lovely, his angel was calm and happy, and of course it all had to end with screams and insults…

Aziraphale watched Crowley being approached by someone, a tall middle-aged woman with gray hair. The conversation Aziraphale had been a part of slowly slipped out of his attention, and instead all Aziraphale could see and hear was Crowley talking to a renowned perfumer and laughing with her. 

"Where is Crowley with our drinks?" Michael looked around without noticing the way Aziraphale was glaring at his lover. Crowley slowly turned his head to Aziraphale, their eyes met - and Crowley turned very angry almost instantaneously. He strode across the room, inviting the woman, Ela Hai was her name, Aziraphale remembered, to join the group.

"Hello." Ela nodded to everyone, but looked mostly at Crowley. "Aziraphale, I'm so glad to have met your partner…"

"He's not my partner," Aziraphale hissed. "He's my lover, at best. Mostly he just lives in my house, makes his insufferable perfumes and thinks he does us all an honour doing all that!"

Crowley was pale on a good day, but now he was grey with anger and hurt. Michael grabbed his elbow and dragged him outside. 

Ela turned to Aziraphale with a confused, but pleased look. "He's wearing his own perfume… you're wearing one of his as well. I  _ smell  _ it. Exquisite talent, remarkable skill. Don't remember a perfume that would fit so well. I offered him a job and he accepted…"

"Well, fuck off, both of you!" Aziraphale spat. 

"And he said  _ My angel will be furious but so proud of me _ . Poor sod." Ela chuckled and walked away. 

***

When Aziraphale came home, he was greeted by the darkness and the scent of bitter cherries. 

"He's left, you know." Michael said from the dark. Aziraphale turned the light on, and both siblings squinted. "Wrote you a letter." She dropped the envelope on the floor. Aziraphale winced. "You're a spoilt brat, and I spoilt you. Had to train you on those worthless idiots, your boy toys. Crowley loved you, and Crowley is proud. He should be. Congratulations, brother. You're miserable again." 

***

Their room was empty, it felt empty without Crowley's things. Aziraphale sat on their bed. His body seemed too heavy for him, and his fingers were shaking when he opened Crowley's letter.

_ Angel, _

_ I love you with all that I am, but I told you before, I can't let you treat me like… like you do. I'm leaving. I won't think about you. You're better off without me… Although we both know that none of it is true. I will think about you, and I'll be seeing you in everything, and you… I don't want to think you're better off without me. _

The letters became foggy, and Aziraphale realised he was crying. He heard the door open. 

"Fuck off, Michael. You were right, now fuck off." Aziraphale wiped his tears furiously. 

"I tried to fuck off," Crowley said. Aziraphale gasped and looked up. "I tried to fuck off, and I can't. Can't leave you like this. You bastard! You fucking idiot!" Crowley was crying too. Aziraphale found it unbearable, but even more unbearable was the thought that he had made Crowley cry. 

"I'm…"

"Don't apologise! You never change, you never listen, you never think. I used to know why I love you, but I can't remember it anymore."

Aziraphale sobbed, but Crowley didn't rush to comfort him. He was standing by the door, hands in pockets. "I want to hit you and I want to love you, I want to hurt you, and I want to take care of you," Crowley continued. "Guess we're both monsters."

"You… you're not a monster. What… what… will we do?"

"Therapy, I suppose."

"There's… you can't change me, Crowley."

"Not going to. But you're going to make a fucking effort to keep me in your life, do you understand?"

"Yes…" Aziraphale sniffled and nodded. "Yes, I promise."

"Good. And you'll marry me, alright?"

"I don't understand… I hurt you…"

"You have. Next time it happens I will make a scene. I will insult you and spit into your drink. I'll embarrass you. That's why I need therapy too."

***

They got married, to Michael's surprise and reluctant joy. She inserted her own wedding vows, promising to protect Crowley from her brother at every cost. Aziraphale's knights couldn't quite grasp what was happening, but Aziraphale was glowing. 

Most ugly arguments were relocated to their therapist's office. They had a lot to work on, but Crowley was holding Aziraphale's hand even as Aziraphale insulted him.

"We need to… to brew, angel," he explained in the beginning. "We can't be perfect from the start. Takes time. You're older than me, so… use your time carefully."

"This is a bit heartless, my dear."

"I don't have a heart, angel, I'm a heart myself. Your heart."

Crowley's work with Ela was successful to say the least. She took him under her wing and taught him herself. 

For a while everything was under control, although Crowley suspected that something wicked was coming his way, and he was right, it was.

Both Aziraphale and Crowley, as a crucial part of Ela's perfumery, were invited to Paris fashion week. Ela, quite cunningly, said she didn't want to attend, so Crowley was going to Paris in her stead. He even had his own press conference planned.

"Darling, I don't think I should be with you when you're interviewed." 

"And why is that? You're my husband. I want and need your support. I will be with you and yours. We can ask for a joint press conference."

"No, no, no way, Crowley, you're stealing my thunder, please… I've been working my whole life for this, and now you just saunter into the industry and get your invitation? No. I want it for myself."

"Careful there, angel."

"I have a reputation! If I attend your press conference, then I'm stealing your thunder!"

"Don't make it about me. You're my husband, I love you, there's nothing to steal, and I want you there!"

"Well, I'm not coming!"

"Angel, stop… Stop, we should sort it with our therapist, not like…"

"Fuck the therapist. You're stealing my life, my success! You were a waiter two years ago, and now you're suddenly a perfumer? Really? Luck of the devil! Had it not been for me, you'd have never…"

"Shut up!" 

Crowley and Aziraphale had been circling each other in their bedroom, but they had run out of space and air. 

"Shut up, angel, shut up! We're having a joint press conference! I need to show the whole world that I'm not a fucking loser living with the man who treats me like shit! I want them to see what I want to see for myself - that I'm a happily married man, that I'm grateful to my husband for his help and support, and that my husband appreciates me too! Understand?"

"You can't just demand things from me, Crowley!"

"I can and I will! You always demand things! You, and your rules, and your stupid routine, and no staying in bed in the morning, and no this and no that… Fuck it, angel. We're doing it again…"

"And this time it's your fault!.." Aziraphale wanted to say more, but Crowley's arms were around him, and for all his anger, he stopped being immune to Crowley's arms from the moment they had touched him for the first time. 

"You're infuriating." Crowley chuckled. "I guess, so am I."

They agreed on the joint press conference. Michael could only roll her eyes.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this ofc   
> https://youtu.be/o88xBksngC4

"Ready?" Aziraphale asked before the press conference. 

"Angel, it's in ten hours," Crowley lazily replied from the bed. 

"You're not taking it seriously, darling."

"I'm not. Why should I?"

"It's… it's our moment of triumph!" 

"No, angel, my moments of triumph involve you naked and coming in my arms." Crowley smirked. 

"You… fiend." Aziraphale smiled at his husband. "Will you wear my suit? As an endorsement?"

"Will you wear my perfume as an endorsement?"

"Darling, it's different. Everyone can see the suit, but no one will be able to smell the perfume. It feels too intimate when I'm wearing your perfume. Feels like… like we've just finished making love."

"I intended it so," Crowley sat up and smiled coyly.

"Well, it's embarrassing. Darling, please… I… I can't. It's very important to me, and we're already having a joint press conference…"

"We're being obnoxious, both of us. I have an idea, angel."

"We're not making love now!"

"Pity, but I was talking about something else. Come here."

Aziraphale gingerly sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm listening."

"Let's have Michael handle everything. She never gets her spotlight, and in the meantime… in the meantime, we are going to be very naughty. Listen to me…" He leaned forward and whispered something into Aziraphale's ear. 

"Crowley, we can't. I want this press conference… But…" And he leaned to Crowley's ear to whisper his suggestion. 

"Oh, I like it. It's awesome, angel, you're so clever."

"So?"

"Let's have it. Let's play."

***

Aziraphale answered the phone even before the first ring finished echoing through his room. 

"Hello?"

"Hello, angel. What's up?"

"You… you… I'm mad with you, Crowley. How dare you…"

"There, there, angel. You need to learn your lesson, don't you? I bet you do. I bet you know you do."

"You were supposed to be by my side this evening! It was my moment of triumph!"

"Hush now, angel, it was  _ our  _ moment of triumph. You didn't want me to parade your masterpieces… Want me all to yourself, don't you, angel?"

"You  _ belong  _ to me!"

"Do I, now? Really? Tell you what, angel, if you find me the way I planned for you to find me, then I do belong to you… If I feel like it."

"You… have no taste!" Aziraphale huffed into the phone. It was embarrassing, the whole interaction. He'd be damned if he stopped it. 

"I have my own taste. I remember you enjoying it quite a lot… Come on, angel. You could never resist a temptation. What are you wearing?"

"Just my briefs."

"Oh, angel, are you blushing? Get dressed, angel. Make it smart for me. There's a bottle of  _ my  _ perfume on your vanity… Even your vanity smells of me, angel. Use it. Wear the tie I gave you, the black and scarlet one, the sharp one, the clever one. Wear me, you shameless hedonist who's too embarrassed to admit he likes a waiter's cock on his menu."

"How dare you!" Aziraphale used the perfume. It smelled of lime and sweat, of something forbidden… Oh yes, apples, the very last apples of the harvest, tart, barely sweet, something teasing, something Aziraphale yearned for, was hungry for. 

"I dare. There's a car waiting for you outside your posh hotel. You belong in those seedy establishments where every staff member is a slut, always there for taking. You're insatiable, Aziraphale, but lucky you, so am I, and for you alone. Get into the car, turn the key on… Oh, silly me. It will be a vintage cabriolet. I hope you can identify a car like that. Drive."

"Where?" Aziraphale was angrily staring at himself in the mirror. He was so giddy he could hardly stay in character.

"Oh, just follow the smell. And the music… there will be music, angel. Ta ta!"

Aziraphale was furious - and aroused. He finished dressing up, found the lift too slow and rushed down the stairs. The car was there indeed, a thing of beauty, something only Crowley would have chosen. Crowley had to be driving it, Crowley had to be there, and instead he ran away, the mischievous, untamable thing he was…

Aziraphale got into the car and turned the ignition on. The music began immediately - terrible, terrifying, perfect. It was too much, it was too loud, too, but Aziraphale was too angry and too smitten to notice. 

He drove around Paris, no, not around Paris, just in circles, following the lead he himself couldn't understand, that smell, that citrus and that tartness and that sweetness…

"Oh, Crowley, you couldn't be that banal!" Aziraphale grinned and drove to the Eiffel tower. 

Aziraphale could see him from afar, that sharp silhouette, wearing one of Aziraphale's best designs, the suit made for Crowley alone, the suit only Crowley could wear - so sharp, so precise. He stood there, a cut across a cheek, a cut across the pink velvet of the dawn, all restless hips and copper hair, black suit, slim trousers, perfect jacket, crossed arms.

Aziraphale got out of the car and quickly walked up to him.

Crowley barely acknowledged Aziraphale's presence with a quick movement of his chin. His golden eyes watched the sunrise - and reflected all that pink and red most beautifully. A slight breeze caught a lock of his hair, pulled his narrow silver scarf away from his shirt - and Aziraphale could smell it, the sea and the lime and the apples, bushels and bushels of them.

"Thought you'd never come. You're not much of a driver, are you, angel?"

"Drive me around, then." Aziraphale snapped back. 

"Oh, gladly."

One swift, smooth movement - and Aziraphale was held in a firm embrace, led back to the car - and then Crowley was in his rightful place, driving, scowling at the traffic, tilting his head forward and slightly sideways. 

"Anywhere you want to go, angel."

"Anywhere you take me is good," Aziraphale whispered, nuzzling Crowley's ear. 

Crowley grinned wider.

"I take it you liked the music… Didn't you, angel?"

"Yes, darling, I liked it a lot. Only you would court using a Requiem." Aziraphale bit Crowley's earlobe.

"Only you would be courted with a Requiem. Didn't use  _ a  _ Requiem, though, angel. It was  _ the  _ Requiem."

"Thought you didn't like Mozart, my love."

"Taking you to the naughtiest place in Paris, angel."

"Which is, dearest?"

"Your fucking room!"

***

In her own room Michael was having a well deserved drink. She looked at Paris she had conquered for her brother and brother-in-law and was very proud of herself. 

Aziraphale had told her of Crowley's plan, but in the end Aziraphale decided to miss the press conference too. Now everything the press could talk about was Michael's remarkable PR skills and two passionate lovers who couldn't handle Paris and their own pants. Ela was ecstatic and asked Michael out. Michael was a bit surprised and began explaining she was aromantic and…

"So am I, dear girl. Doesn't mean we can't have a drink and some quality time away from those idiots of ours."

"I can't agree with you any more."

"So, call me when you're back in London, will you?"

"I will, Ela. I will."

And in their room, Aziraphale and Crowley were sleeping, or rather Crowley was sleeping, and Aziraphale was watching him with awe and wonder. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for being here. Kudos and comments are the only ornaments we accept.


End file.
